


How Would You Feel?

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age-gap Relationship, Cake, Ed Sheeran - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Guitar, Sherlock is helpful, Singing, Slow Dancing, Songfic, series 4 references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 05:03:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10210172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: Can anything good come out of Sherrinford? Well, maybe.Based on, and featuring, Ed Sheeran's song, 'How Would You feel [Paean.]'





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as ever for your support. :)

“Ohhh.” You’re sat on the arm of the scruffiest armchair in the square living area of 221C-the basement flat where you live-holding a light brown acoustic guitar, which your hands pluck and gently strum at, your eyes almost shut as you sing, “How would you feel? If I told you I loved you?” The song, _‘How Would You Feel [Paean]’_ by _Ed Sheeran_ has rocketed up to be number one in the most played songs on your phone recently. You’d quickly learnt to play it and you’re struggling to get it out of your head. For once things are quiet enough for you to just focus on you and the feelings that one man in particular has stirred inside you over these past few months. Your eyes close completely and you picture the soft, fluffy auburn hair, those pale blue eyes which hold a wealth of thoughts and mysteries behind them, but which contain an odd vulnerability too that never fails to draw you in, thin lips, which you sometimes get curving into a smile, making you feel a sense of triumph each time they do, those three-piece suits and the long, slender fingers, which will be curved around a black umbrella. You remember how, when he’d first started coming around he’d quite often sat so that the umbrella was between you, as if he was using it as some sort of protective shield. You smile. You’d felt like you were tiptoeing around him at first. Mycroft had refused to go to a counsellor after the whole Sherrinford thing even though his parents, John and even Sherlock had suggested that it might be a good idea for him to do so. You, with your background in psychology-though you weren’t a counsellor yourself-had thought it might be helpful too when Sherlock had told you what he was trying to get Mycroft to do. The youngest Holmes had coaxed you into going to see his brother and trying to persuade him to take up the idea, so you’d gone and visited Mycroft in work one afternoon. 

 

You remember now how he’d been sat there behind the desk in his office. It had been so dark and gloomy in there that you’d spent a moment wondering how he could motivate himself to get any work done at all. As soon as he’d seen you he’d given off the air of someone who wasn’t impressed and looked straight back down to his paperwork. You’d been able to see that his eyes weren’t moving though, his mind not yet back on work and so you’d stepped forwards. 

 

You’d felt nervous. Even in that brief interaction Mycroft had seemed to sense what you were there for and on whose behalf. But knowing that you had to get in there quick, before he dismissed you completely, you’d opened your mouth and begun, “I'm here because”-

 

“It appears that my brother won’t be letting this matter go any time soon,” he’d hummed, his eyes still on his papers. 

 

“No.” You’d moved a little further forwards, your shoulders slightly hunched and your head off to one side, as if you were approaching an animal who was eating a particularly large meal and you were worried about disturbing it, before you’d darted forwards quickly and slipped onto the chair in front of him. 

 

“I suppose I don’t have to inform you how very tiring and troublesome and a whole host of other words that I won’t bore you with this is?” He’d looked up and smiled at you a little indulgently. You’d tried to ignore the sensation that made you feel in your stomach and felt grateful when, a moment later, one of Mycroft’s assistants had brought in a cup of tea for you. You’d agreed to have it on your way in. As you’d sipped at it you’d readied yourself for a waiting game as Mycroft continued his thoughts. “I'm assuming that I don’t have to tell you either that Sherlock will no doubt make life difficult for you if you return to 221B without having had any success.” He’d seemed in a very contemplative mood and he’d glanced down at his papers again as if they might help order all his thought. You’d put down your cup on the edge of his desk. You’d been worried that he might snap at you if you invaded his personal space too much. “He’ll pester you again and again, which no doubt you’ll grow weary of all too soon.”

 

“I don’t mind,” you’d said, before Mycroft had barely finished his words. He’d looked at you in surprise, but although you’d been able to feel the beginnings of a distinct flush upon your face you’d carried on, “I know I might not be able to persuade you today, but I’ll come again until you agree to speak to someone like you need to.” You’d smiled at him a little apologetically when you’d finished, knowing that he’d probably find it as annoying if his brother visited him, but not being able to have helped but make such a vow to him with your feelings for him the way they were.

 

Mycroft had mumbled something then, something, which you’d been sure, had included how overrated talking to someone is. You’d looked at him disapprovingly, but you’d let it slide aside from that because a moment later he’d looked directly at you, straight into your soul no less, and asked you quite casually, “Would it solve the issue do you think if I were to talk to you? Would my brother leave us both alone then?” Your mouth had opened at that and you’d made a noise that wouldn't be out of place coming from some sort of small, confused animal. “You have a degree in psychology do you not?” 

 

“Y-Yes, but I'm no expert,” you’d stammered out. You’d felt alarmed. Was he that far gone in not wanting to talk to someone that he’d seriously see talking to you, someone who could not help him in a professional sense at all, as a healthy alternative? “I'm not equipped with all the right tools to deal with you”- you’d said, as you’d tried to further make him see common sense, before you’d abruptly broken off when you realized how that could sound. Your flush had deepened. Mycroft had looked amused. “I don’t know how to advise you to best move forwards,” you’d attempted to rescue yourself.

 

“Good, because I don’t want to sit in front of a professional,” Mycroft had said stubbornly. Your mouth had opened and shut at that. You hadn’t known what to do. You’d felt hopeless. “It’s a valuable waste of my time to spend energy researching when I’ve already deemed you more than suitable if I really must talk to someone.” 

 

“B-But”-your head had done a quick think-“Surely, in that case, someone who was actually at Sherrinford with you would be more useful? J-John or even”-

 

Mycroft had shaken his head at that. His lips had grown very tight and his eyes had shut. He’d looked like was momentarily counting to ten, before he’d gone on to give you a rather stern and introspective gaze when he’d opened his eyes again, as if you were trying his patience. 

 

“I'm not a professional,” you’d stressed once more. Mycroft had snorted and tossed his head back like an angry bull. “You’d have to be prepared for me to mess up if you came to see me, for things to go wrong, for me to not always say what you want or need me to.” Once again, in spite of yourself and how much you’d really like to be able to help him in this, you’d hoped that he’d go down the sensible route. “You might not find it as helpful if you were to go to someone more experienced.” He’d nodded, his eyes down on his desk again. “A-All right,” you’d begun hesitantly, taking a bit of a deep breath, “If you’re really sure that you’re fine with everything then I’ll do it.” 

 

Again Mycroft had nodded, but you’d thought you’d seen the twitch of something at his lips, before he’d looked up again. “Very well. In that case then I’ll be around at yours every Sunday afternoon and I suppose it would also be sensible of me to visit after whenever I see Eurus and might need to get something off my chest in order to work more freely again.” You’d almost said that you weren’t doing this just so he could work at a better rate and that it should, if all went well, make him feel freer in himself as a whole, but you’d stopped yourself. You hadn’t wanted things to get off to a bad start or for him to think you some kind of crazy dreamer. “Does that sound agreeable to you?” You’d nodded and with that decided upon had begun to stand up, so that you could take your leave. “Wait just one moment,” Mycroft had said and you’d looked back at him. He’d been staring at you as if you’d forgotten something most important, before he’d taken a chequebook out of his jacket pocket. 

 

“Oh I can’t,” you’d said as soon as you’d realized what he was about to do. Mycroft had looked at you with a furrowed brow. “I can’t accept payment for it.”

 

“But why would you do it otherwise?” 

 

Your face had softened then. “To help a friend.” You’d leaned forwards and grasped at his hand quickly. 

 

Mycroft had looked touched. Still, that hadn’t stopped you from questioning yourself the whole taxi ride back about what exactly you were getting yourself into. You were happy to have the excuse to spend more time with Mycroft and you’d spent a moment thanking the stars for Eurus and Mycroft’s difficult upbringing, before a terrible wave of guilt had hit you. You’d rather that Mycroft hadn’t had to go through what he had whether that meant him spending time with you or not now. You’d expected Sherlock to scold you when you’d told him of what had unfolded, expected him to say that you hadn’t gone far enough. But to your surprise he’d looked strangely satisfied. You’d left him for 221C feeling like you’d gotten off lightly and worried about Mycroft coming around that Sunday, which was in four days time. You’d spent a frantic amount of energy doing research into anything that might be helpful, but when Mycroft had come around you’d felt like you were coasting. You’d made him a cup of tea, which he hadn’t seemed to like all that much and you’d vowed to do a better job of it next time. You hadn’t known that he’d been nervous himself and too much so to enjoy it properly and that was more to blame than the fact that you hadn’t made it the way he liked it. Then you’d gently started to ask him questions, before he’d raised a hand. Once you’d broken off he’d leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. You’d looked at him in puzzlement, but he hadn’t spoken again until half-an-hour had passed. Then he’d thanked you and taken his leave. You’d felt like a failure. You’d thought that, that would be the end of it and you’d fretted about the whole thing to both Mrs. Hudson and Molly. But to your surprise Mycroft had come back again and again and slowly you’d come to see how things were going to be. That perhaps what he needed was a friend more than anyone analysing that large brain of his. Sometimes he’d talk and the words would come out of him like faltering footsteps. Sometimes he’d looked surprised that they came out at all. Other visits he’d be sat there, his eyes shut, deep in thought. Sometimes he just seemed to want to watch you. His blue eyes would fix upon you and knowing that he wasn’t about to talk you’d distract yourself with reading or through jotting something down. Whatever the case the more you’d found out about the ways he liked to operate the more you’d found yourself falling hopelessly in love with him. He barely had to say two words and your heart would be soaring that he’d confided that much in you. It was silly you knew, but you couldn't help it. 

 

The doorbell rings, pulling you out of your thought. It’s July and coming to the end of an oddly hot day for London. You've even had some windows open. It’s a Tuesday, not a Sunday, so technically it shouldn't be Mycroft, but you know that it is. He’d told you that his parents would be coming down and that they wanted both Sherlock and him to accompany them on a trip to see Eurus. Mycroft seems to find spending time with any members of his family difficult, perhaps with the exception of Sherlock who he’s got used to rubbing up against, so you’d mentally noted the day down as one that could be problematic for him and told him to come and see you straight after. He didn't have to talk you said. You could just have tea. He’d nodded, but he’d phoned you last night, more to complain and whine about the upcoming day than anything else. You could tell that he’d been anxious, his voice had risen up and down, up and down, as he’d paced. You’d tried to placate him as best as you could. You’d done so enough to get him sitting back down and breathing a little more calmly. There had been a pleasant sort of silence. But then, very abruptly, he’d apologized to you, saying that he should not be phoning you just to fill your life up with misery. You’d been breezy about it and said that, that was what you were there for. It’s not as if you minded. You liked hearing from him, especially outside of your sessions, which you so very rarely did. But, not knowing what he’d think, you’d kept that last bit to yourself. There had been a long pause from his end, before he’d thanked you. 

 

Now, knowing who it is and wanting to provide some comfort you slide off the arm of your chair, carrying your guitar and running a hand through your h/c hair, catching it against your ponytail as you go to answer the door. 

 

It’s Mycroft, wearing a grey tie, waistcoat and trousers along with a white shirt. His eyes look drained and as if they’re somewhere very far away, but they manage a reassuring flicker of something as they look at you. You look at him sympathetically and first take his umbrella from him, leaning it up against the wall, before you take his large hand with your smaller one. Pulling him gently inside you allow the door to fall shut. 

 

“Sorry,” he says, when he notices your guitar. He looks strangely mortified that he might have interrupted your thoughts, which makes you feel curious because he’s never seemed all that bothered about doing such a thing before. 

 

“It’s fine,” you say in a low, soothing tone, going across to put your guitar on its black stand between the two armchairs. You can’t know that his eyes watch you with intrigue. Then you return to him and allow your arms to encircle him. Moving away, before he can hug you back, you tell him, “I’ll make tea.”

 

He nods and tiredly makes his way to the best armchair. 

 

You keep an eye on him from the kitchenette, as one of your hands automatically dunks a couple of tea bags into two cups. Part of you then focuses on getting the tea the way he likes it, but the other part takes in the way that strands of his auburn hair have escaped from the way they should be, as if he’s been raking his hands through it and the seriousness, which seems fixed at his lips. “How was it?” you venture once the tea’s finally been made and you’re taking it across to him. You drag the small coffee table in between the chairs, before you rest his cup down upon it. 

 

He gives a little shrug. Something ripples across his lips like the light patter of rain against a window. “She played the violin with Sherlock. I dare say she was more interested in him than in anyone else.”

 

“She loves you.” You give his shoulder a quick squeeze. “She just doesn’t know how to express it.” She’s not the only one, you think. You pull away again. 

 

He half-smiles, as if he’d quite like to believe in your words, before he reaches for his tea. “Thank you,” he says once he’s sipped at it and discovered that it’s exactly how he likes it. 

 

You give him a smile, before you go and fetch your own tea. You bring that across first, laying it down opposite where his cup is now back on the table, before you spin back around, returning to the kitchenette again. 

 

Mycroft watches you, wondering what you can be up to now. He panics a little when he sees you dragging a cake box down from one of the cupboards. He can tell just from the side of the box that the cake is going to be delicious, all soft and sponge covered in coconut with cream and cherries. His mouth begins to salivate just at the thought of it. “F/N you don’t have to use that up on me,” he forces out, before he can change his mind, deciding that he cares more about what you think of him than about being greedy in that moment. 

 

You look across at him. “I bought it for us,” you tell him. 

 

Again Mycroft feels surprise. “Oh, well”- he looks down at his waistline and then back at the cake. 

 

For once his thoughts are completely obvious to you and it comes as such a relief. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.” You smile. 

 

He feels a reassuring shudder of something run through him. “All right,” he says softly, leaning back in his chair and finally starting to relax like he’s not done all morning. Something about being in this flat, about observing all its eccentricities, the bunting you’ve got on the wall opposite as if you’re having your own summer fete right here, the scattered randomness of your pin board beneath that where you’ve got photos of you with friends, the cards of takeaways and clubs, notes about books you want to purchase, lists of shopping and things that need to be done at work along with random pictures that you’d printed off from the internet, about being around you and being reminded about what it’s like to be at the very beginning of your career and at the start of everything makes him feel young again. He’d never exactly been untroubled in his youth, but the fact that he’d been closer then to the age where Sherlock had last hugged him, to the age where his young brother had barrelled into him on the beach, makes him feel lighter. There had been so much hope then. He wonders suddenly what it would have been like if he’d grown up in a different family with just his career aspirations to cling onto. Would he be happier? Would that hope still be there?

 

“There you go,” you lay his plate of cake down in front of him. There is something deep about your e/c eyes in that moment, as if you understand that he’s not, but you want him to be all right. 

 

Determined to show you that he’s not about to have a breakdown right here in the middle of your flat he forces a watery smile at you and says, “Thank you F/N.” That doesn’t seem to put your concerns at bay however and you watch as he picks up the little fork that you’ve provided him with and as he begins to tuck into his cake. He smiles at you again and you fetch your own cake and fork, bringing two pieces of kitchen towel with you as an afterthought. 

 

You sit opposite him and you both take time savouring the cake. He finishes his piece first and you try not to look too much as he uses the kitchen towel to dab at his mouth, wiping bits of cream off it. Try and not stare as he licks at his lips in an absent-minded fashion. Your heart lunges when he looks at you and you suddenly realize that for you be seeing him as he is you must be looking at him. It feels like you flush right down to the tips of your toes and you look away hurriedly, stabbing the plate with your fork more than the cake. You let out a little curse under your breath and hurriedly find yourself glancing at him again. He’s looking at you with his head tilted. Your breath feels like it’s suddenly caught in your throat, but you manage to get out, “It’s a bit fiddly.” He doesn’t reply. You go back to your cake and thankfully manage to finish it without anything else that’s awkward happening. You take your plates back and get rid of the kitchen towel, before you go and sit down again. You take a long drink of your tea, before you lean back and look at him, wondering what type of day this will be. He hadn’t seemed too reluctant to talk earlier. You've seen him better it’s true, but you’ve seen him worse. Now however he closes his eyes, his hands on the arms of the chair as he rests back. All right, you think, if he needs time to be in his head then you’ll give it to him. You pick up a book that you keep on the coffee table for this express purpose and begin to read. 

 

Mycroft’s eyes open without you knowing as he hears the shuffle of a page. He watches you intently. It’s not the first time he’s done so when you’ve been reading or writing and now, as he watches the movement of your eyes shudder to a halt and your face become immersed in thought he wonders, again not for the first time, what’s on your mind. Usually he’d be able to tell. But you’ve already proved yourself to not be like most people and he keeps drawing large blanks when he’s around you. Inspired perhaps by the thoughts of your youthfulness that had run through his head earlier he begins to wonder what it’s like to be you. It can’t exactly be easy. Living here in such close proximity to his brother, putting up with all his schemes and noise. Mycroft shifts his position like a bird ruffling its feathers. He quickly closes his eyes again when you look at him and only dares open them when he hears the turning of a page. He braces himself just in case you should still be looking at him, but once again your attention is elsewhere. Not on your book, just elsewhere. His shoulders relax again and he goes back to his thoughts of you. He imagines that you must feel stressed out beyond belief sometimes, what with his brother and John rushing back and forth, little Rosie’s playful chirping and Mrs. Hudson’s dithering, all manner of people walking in and out. It can’t be the most relaxing place to live, yet you seem remarkably well adjusted to it. It occurs to him then that perhaps in an odd sense you like it, that perhaps it serves as a distraction from whatever troubles you. He tilts his head. There must be something for you to keep slipping into thought like he’s seen you do over the past few months. The moments where your eyes still like they are now or where your pen stops its writing and becomes lopsided in your hand. He feels something. Guilt perhaps? For its been slowly occurring to him more recently that in all the time you’ve been helping him, showing him the same non-judgemental attitude you treat Sherlock, and everyone with in fact, letting him talk or not talk, putting up with whatever mood he’s in and never pushing him to leave, but always waiting for him to decide when he’s ready, letting him drink your tea and now eat your cake, that he’s shown little outward interest in you. Oh, he’s wondered about you yes. But how are you to know that? As far as you’re concerned you must think he’s a very difficult person whose given you little back compared to what you’ve given him. He suddenly concludes that he’s not made your life any easier and that makes him feel in a right predicament. He closes his eyes and sinks further back into the chair. 

 

You’re actually reading again by the time that a snuffling noise draws you out of your book and gets you looking across at Mycroft again. You let out a little breath of surprise. He’s fallen asleep. His head is down on one shoulder, his mouth slightly agape, one hand hanging off the arm of the chair. Something about him though looks uneasy, as if he has rather fallen asleep against his will. Slowly you lower your book down to the coffee table and get up. You’d like to make him more comfortable if you can. You hesitate a moment, before you turn and head into your bedroom. You pick up the blue throw that you keep on your bed and give it a little shake to get any dust off of it, before you return to the main living area. Mycroft hasn’t moved at all and keeping one eye on him you go across. Slowly and carefully you very gently loosen his tie and undo the top button of his shirt, so that he can breathe more freely. All fingers and thumbs you’re terrified that he might wake up at any moment and think that you’re molesting him. You drape the blue throw over him, covering his lap and part of his chest with it, before you move the position of his dangling arm, so that it comes to be in a more secure position, resting over the throw. He shifts a little, wrinkling his nose and you step back. But then, with his fingers reaching towards each other, one hand beneath the throw and the other above it, he relaxes properly once more, nestling his head into the chair. Your body overflowing with love for him and the need to protect you cannot help but move forwards and gently push his auburn hair into place, smoothing it back. You peck a kiss onto his forehead as you do so. “How would you feel?” you breathe, your fingers still resting on the front of his hair. “If I told you I loved you?” It’s hopeless. That’s as far as you can go you know. You definitely couldn't ever say those words to him when he was awake. Not only are you afraid of all the obvious things occurring if you did, like rejection, but you know that it wouldn't be right. It would complicate things too much. You’re supposed to be helping him, not sitting opposite him wishing that you could pull his clothes off. Besides, you have a duty as someone who cares for him to look out for his best interests right now and blurting something like that out would not be helpful. It would probably just confuse him when he’s coming through the other side of all that stuff that had happened with Eurus at Sherrinford and keeping the fact that she hadn’t died to himself for all these years. You sigh, wondering if you’re just using all those things as an excuse. Perhaps if you told him things wouldn't go as badly as you fear they would? Perhaps his eyes would light up and he’d reveal that he feels the same? But there’s no guarantee that, that would happen, and even if you are using all those things as an excuse you know that you can’t tell him just in case things were to go badly because of it. You move away, sitting on the arm of your chair for a moment as you watch him. “It’s just something that I want to do,” you say as you feel that tug inside of you again, that pull to just say it and finally be aware of the consequences, whatever they might be. Mycroft again shows no sign of having heard you. You let out a little breath and go back to your reading. You can’t. You _won’t_ let that come out of your mouth. 

 

It’s about an hour later when Mycroft jerks awake. He becomes aware first of the throw and his hands push against it with it in between them. Then his blinking eyes see his uneven collar and loose tie. His fingers sneak out from beneath the throw to fiddle with the undone button. 

 

“Sorry,” you murmur, a little breathless from his sudden activity, “When you fell asleep you looked a little, erm, troubled, so I did that to try and make things better for you.”

 

Mycroft looks at you now, shifting his position. “Ah F/N,” he says, his shoulders relaxing as if to say, ‘Oh, it’s just you,’ as he remembers that he’s safe here. He’s not at Sherrinford preparing to make it easier for his brother to kill him. “Forgive me.” He begins to peel the throw off him. “I’ve taken up so much of your time.”

 

“It’s no trouble. Why don’t I make you another cup of tea, before you go?” You stand up. 

 

Mycroft considers your words for a moment. “All right then.” He settles back into the chair, his fingers doing up the button and straightening his tie, getting everything neat again. They go to his hair, the hair that you’d touched yourself just over an hour ago and as the memory comes back to you, for that’s all it will ever be now, you find that you have to turn away. You busy yourself with making the tea instead, swallowing and trying to get your clumsy fingers under control because you just can’t do this. You wince when your hands knock the two cups together. 

 

“Everything all right?” Mycroft says, touching at your waist and suddenly behind you. You jump about a mile, your hand darting to your hair as your body twists around. You see that he’s brought the empty cups from the coffee table and he puts them down upon the counter you’re not working at. 

 

“Erm yeah, course,” you say, your smile much too sudden and bright to be believed. Mycroft blinks as if he’s just been dazzled by car headlights. “I’ve got this. Go and sit down. Rest up.” 

 

Mycroft nods, letting your gesturing hands guide him back to the chair. Once he’s sat back down on it and neatly folded the throw over the arm he looks back to you once more. There’s definitely something curious going on with you. You’d seemed very nervous just now, and strange, as if he’d walked in on your very thoughts themselves. He leans back, stretching his long legs out in front of him as he contemplates. He thinks of all the things he could ask that might get an answer out of you. He supposes he could ask what you’d done this morning or how your job’s going, but neither of them will necessary allow him to gleam the answers that he wants. He needs to be a bit more specific. He could ask you if you’ve got any problems at work. You study child behaviour and it suddenly occurs to him that, that’s probably why you’re so good at handling both Sherlock and him and everything that goes on all around you. Someone might have been rude to you or difficult about a piece of research you’d submitted. He knows you’d given in something recently because the points building up to the final deadline had slowly been crossed out on the pin board and he’d been able to tell from the slight rub of your skin close to your wrist that you’d been typing more. But then he sees it, the slight glimpse of your eyes going towards the guitar as you bring the two cups of tea across and the question, “What were you playing earlier if you don’t mind me asking?” comes out of his mouth as if it was always meant to. You freeze and hesitate, before your mouth opens a little. Mycroft knows he’s got it. Whatever you’d been playing earlier will lead him onto what he wants to know and what’s been troubling you. 

 

_“Oh.”_ You settle the cups down and your hand goes to your hair again. “It’s nothing.” You sit down and throw a smile his way, your hands coming together as you lean forwards. 

 

Mycroft lets a beat pass between you, before he asks you as casually as he can, “Would you play it for me?” He sips at his tea. 

 

You glance at him, feeling uncomfortable. His face looks serious in every way. “I can play the original for you if you really think that you’d be interested in hearing it that much?” Thinking that he’ll probably be in agreement going by what his face had looked like just now you reach into your pocket for your phone. 

 

Mycroft raises a hand. “I’d like to hear your version,” he persists. 

 

Your mouth flutters between being open and shut. Your eyes swivel from left to right, looking for an escape route. Unable to find one you look back at him. Again he looks perfectly sincere. “All right,” you say falteringly, almost as if you’re asking him a question. Mycroft smiles. You get back up and bring the guitar around to you, holding it in between you for a moment as if it’s your comfort blanket as much as his umbrella is to him. You sit on the arm of your chair, facing him. Your breaths feel like they’re all jumping about in your throat, competing for space. You don’t know how you’re going to get the words out, how you’re going to be able to say one single line with him looking at you the way he is. All serious, but with supportive eyes and thin lips that are very nearly smiling as he waits, leaning back in his chair as if he’s trusting you to give him a performance to the standard of a sold-out concert, his hands palm down on the arms of the chair. You swallow and blow out a breath, closing your eyes as you get yourself together. You feel your fingers going into position automatically on the guitar. The opening beat of the song plays in your head and then you’re off, your fingers plucking out that same rhythm on your guitar. “You are the one, boy, you know it’s true,” you change the words, trying to sing it just as you had earlier when you’d still been waiting for Mycroft to arrive. Opening your eyes your cheeks turn red as you look at him. “I'm feeling younger every time that I'm alone with you.” 

 

Mycroft blinks. How is it that you’ve just sung the words he’d been thinking earlier? His fingers twitch and he leans forwards ever so slightly. 

 

Growing more confident you continue, “We were sitting in a parked car, stealing kisses in a front yard”-you can feel your cheeks heating up even more at that, but you can’t take your eyes off him. Mycroft recognizes that his own face feels warmer. “We got questions we shouldn't had asked but-how would you feel? If I told you I loved you? It’s just something that I want to do.” You look down, a shy smile on your face, but also one that tells him that you’d thought this moment inevitable too. Known that it would have to come, and he admires your bravery in that moment for facing it. “I’ll be taking my time”-you strum at your guitar-“Spending my life, falling deeper in love with you.” You look back up at him. “So tell me that you love me too.” You wear your blush proudly now, a look of determination on your face.

 

Mycroft understands now and he raises a hand. You pause, suddenly flustered again, the last note you’d played on the guitar echoing out through the entire room and beyond. Mycroft’s face softens. He hadn’t meant to alarm you. He’d just had to act, before you could go any further. “As lovely as your version is I think I’d like to hear the original now, whilst you dance with me,” he says in a voice that is both gentle and firm. 

 

You blink, wondering if you’d heard his last words correctly. All you’d processed before that was that he’d prefer to hear the original, that he must think it better than yours. Mycroft stares at you, looking somewhat amused and pleased with himself. “Er, yeah, all right,” you say, gathering yourself together and hurrying to take your guitar back to its stand. You feel for your phone, before you decide to play the CD in the CD player instead. You flick forwards to the right track and the opening notes begin to play. 

 

_You are the one, girl, you know that it’s true._

 

You look back to see that Mycroft’s offering you his hand. He’s got an expression that’s somehow both serious and gentle on his face. You take a deep breath, before you go across there and slip your hand into his. For a moment the both of you just look down at the way that your smaller hand fits into his, as if you’re wondering how your skin has even managed to come into contact with the others at all. 

 

_I'm feeling younger, every time that I'm alone with you._

 

Mycroft pulls you close and you let out a breath. His free hand goes to your waist, whilst yours climbs up to his shoulder. You can’t look at him for the longest of times, but when you do your eyes are shining and your face is flushed prettily. 

 

“You can sing if you want to,” Mycroft tells you as your top lip rubs against your bottom one. 

 

“You liked it?” you ask, still feeling uncertain as to what he’d thought of your version. 

 

“Very much so,” Mycroft confirms. 

 

You duck your head for a moment and then you sway together as you sing along, “We were sitting in a parked car, stealing kisses in a front yard, we got questions we shouldn't had asked but”-

 

“How would you feel?” Mycroft joins in, in a soft yet stirring tone that makes you look up and every part of your body feel alive. “If I told you I loved you?”

 

“It’s just something that I want to do.” You smile. 

 

“I’ll be taking my time,” Mycroft rumbles. 

 

“Spending my life”-

 

“Falling deeper in love with you,” you both sing. “So tell me that you love me too.” You both look to the space between your feet as your hands tighten against each other’s. Mycroft rubs his lips consideringly together and you do the same with yours. It feels like your hearts have come out of your chests and like they’re dancing together too. You push a little closer to him. 

 

“In the summer, as the lilacs bloom, love flows deeper than a river, every moment that I spend with you,” you take the lead. 

 

Mycroft smiles, the words he had not known would be coming reassuring him with their familiar picture. That’s how its been for him and you he thinks, a steady amount of time all building up to this. His hand goes from your waist to your back and you move willingly closer to him still, the toes of your shoes now brushing together as you sway some more. 

 

“We were sat upon our best friend’s roof, I had both of my arms around you.” Filled by a sudden, if shy confidence, you wrap both of your arms around his waist, so that the side of your face comes to press lightly against his chest. Mycroft shifts, so that he comes to be feeling you more against him. Once you are the feel of you sends him dizzy and he lets out a little breath, not quite sure what’s going on here, but liking it immensely. Liking how firm your hands feel upon his back, as if you’re not scared any more, you’re simply claiming what’s always been yours, liking the pressure of your head that’s just right against his chest and the smell of your freshly washed hair, which sends his mind spinning again. His hands go to your back and as you let out a little sound of pleasure, shifting your head against his chest, he lets out another breath. Your bodies are flush against each other’s now. Somewhere in the background Ed Sheeran sings about the sunrise replacing the moon. 

 

_How would you feel_   
_If I told you I loved you_   
_It’s just something that I want to do_   
_I’ll be taking my time, spending my life_   
_Falling deeper in love with you_   
_So tell me that you love me too_

 

Mycroft hums along to the chorus and both of your hands and his come up to tangle together either side of your head. Mycroft nudges at your hair with his nose. His mind is whirring just as it always is, but for once he can’t hear what it’s saying. He’s just caught in this moment with you. You move back as the musical interlude begins and as your eyes meet his he thinks that his face might be as warm and as full of joy in that moment as yours is. He spins you beneath his arm and feels a little thrill at the breath you release when your body comes slamming back into his. You push close again, your hands holding his shoulders from behind and his face a hair’s width length away from yours as you slow dance. 

 

“We were sitting in a parked car,” he sings, his voice soft, low. You turn around and around in that space. 

 

“Stealing kisses in a front yard,” you make an effort to join in, despite how tired you suddenly feel at being this comfortable and happy. Mycroft’s grip tightens on you protectively, ready to catch you should you suddenly fall asleep against him. 

 

“We got questions we shouldn't had asked but-how would you feel? If I told you I loved you?” you both sing along. “It’s just something that I want to do.” You melt against him and Mycroft draws his head back momentarily, so that he can kiss at your forehead. You make a sound of contentment, before the sides of your heads come close together once more. “I’ll be taking my time, spending my life, falling deeper in love with you. So tell me that you love me too. Tell me that you love me too. Tell me that you love me too.” The song fades and Mycroft only pulls back from you a little, before his lips, feeling a great need to in that moment, swoop in and slow down until they brush right against yours. You let out a little sound, waking up, and cling onto his shoulder with one hand, whilst your other goes to his cheek and then to the back of his neck as his lips press against yours more firmly. Outside the moon begins to replace the sun.


End file.
